Colder Than Ice
by The Beautiful Filth
Summary: [ON HIATUS UNTIL AUGUST 2014] Sherlock had never seen someone seal off emotions so completely, yet Stella displayed even less sentiment than Mycroft. He was determined to knock down her walls, but did he really want to see beyond her ice-blue irises and look at the depths of his daughter's soul?
1. Prologue

**NOTE: ****Established Sherlolly; Parent!Lock; canon divergence**

* * *

As the brown-haired girl rummaged her drawers in search of her external hard drive, she came across a photo in a wrought iron frame. Despite her efforts, Stella's lips curled up to form a soft, fleeting smile. The sensation was foreign to her — as ordinary an action it seemed, it had been seven years since she last blatantly displayed a trace of emotions on her face. Yet with the smile, her ice-blue irises did not become bluer; her pale, heart-shaped face didn't gain any color. The grin, it seemed, made her pupils darker, skin paler, and lips purse tighter together.

_"Molly, will you pass me the beaker?" Sherlock asked, extending a hand in Molly's direction. _

_"Sure!"_

_The detective's daughter hid below a lab bench, sneaking glances at her parents. When Sherlock asked whether she would like to join them she had declined, much to her parents' surprise. _

_"Sherlock, Millie is her own person. Don't expect her to be a science genius, though it's more likely than not that her IQ is over two hundred," John Watson had said, shaking his head at the Consulting Detective. Molly simply chuckled._

_"Molly, the beaker?"_

_"Here, Sherlock! Listen, I have to sign some papers for Mike. Don't blow up the lab, alright? Love you," Molly said, swiftly kissing Sherlock. Millie giggled from below the bench, covering her eyes. _

_"Mummy, gross!" She whined, earning a laugh from Sherlock. He walked over to his — their — daughter, and scooped her into his arms. Molly walked over to the duo, having heard her daughter's complaint. She tickled little Millie, causing her to burst into laughter. Sherlock merely chuckled, and quickly directed a glare towards the blogger who apparently snapped a picture of the happy family. _

This picture so happened to be developed and framed, and Stella ran her fingers softy over the photograph that had gathered quite some dust.

That was the last prominent gleeful memory of her family.

It had been already seven years, and yet, the pain still lingered. Her family was no longer cheerful or complete, as opposed to the mirth captured in the photo by John. There were no Molly working in the morgue, no Sherlock doing experiments and goofing around with his wife, no Stella watching her parents from afar.

It was unsettling, really, to know how her family fell apart. She had always known that her parents hadn't got along well when they first met in spite of her mother's initial infatuation and adoration for her father. They had bonded after a particular disastrous case on Sherlock's part in their university days over solitude and mutual trust, as not much people knew Sherlock was alive; and Molly was empathetic and compassionate. She had the intellect that made her capable of being a professor in pathology in Oxbridge, yet she chose to remain as a pathologist in St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and offer Sherlock Holmes private counseling whenever he felt like giving up.

They were the perfect family, although people were skeptical about the match between Molly and Sherlock. Being each others' confidantes, it was difficult to find a family with stronger bonds between members than the Holmeses. To Stella, at least, she had lead a life of peaceful yet dynamic equilibrium, until the day when all _hell_ broke loose.

It was a cold, yet warm day in January. Her father was working on a case with Uncle John at Edgware, his trustworthy sidekick. Mummy had a day off, so instead of heading to St. Bart's in the morning, Molly Holmes stayed at home with her. After a nourishing and fulfilling breakfast the girls settled into a game of hide and seek, with Stella hiding and Molly looking for her. Several times she had scared Molly out of her wits, popping out of nowhere after Molly turned the entire flat upside down in search of Stella. Yet on this day, Molly was infinitely grateful towards Stella's fondness of uncanny hideouts, for it saved not only her life, but also Sherlock's life.

_"Oh, come on!" Molly groaned. "You have to be in here somewhere!" _

_Stella giggled, snuggled comfortably on top of the kitchen cabinet, hidden away from Molly's line of sight behind a __steel board__. She peeked through the crack between the board and the cupboard, smirking to herself as Molly crouched on the floor, looking underneath the sofa when —_

_"Stop where you are."_

_Molly squeaked, turning around to face the intruders, only to see the __black barrel__ of the gun. Stella, safely tucked away, held her breath and dared not make a sound. _

_"Where's Mildred?" A man demanded, jamming the barrel of the gun into Molly's temple. _

_"Millie — she's — not here."_

_Stella cringed. Her legal first name hadn't been the most attractive name in the world, but it had never sounded this malevolent. The way which Bad Man spoke her name made her feel she was inferior, which she refused to acknowledge or acquiesce to—she was the daughter of Sherlock and Molly Holmes, for God's sake! _

_Bad Man jammed the gun harder, and Molly winced. "Where. Is. Mildred Holmes?"_

_"She's at — she's with — she's with Mary!" Molly stuttered, and Stella still dared not to breathe even though she knew she was safe for the moment. Her mother had lied—the woman who always told the truth told a lie for her daughter's safety. _

_She couldn't focus on the scene in front of her. She saw everything, yet she didn't see them. Numbly she witnessed the Bad Men tie Mummy up and throw her out of the flat, but her mind refused to register this action and comprehend the sight. . _

_At least ten minutes passed before she regained control over her shaken self. Shakily she hopped down from the top of the kitchen cabinet, wobbled over to Molly's phone — she didn't take it with her when they were playing hide and seek, and hence left it behind when she was taken away — and unlocked it. She scrolled through her contact list to find Daddy's number, and called him. _

_"Molly, I'm on a case!" Sherlock's voice reached Stella's ears, and Stella sniffed. _

_"D — Daddy?"_

_"Millie? What's going on? Why're you crying? Why do you have Mummy's phone?"_

_"Some — three bad men came and — and — and took Mummy away," Stella sniffed, struggling to speak. _

_Sherlock swore, not caring that his daughter would hear the expletive. "Millie —"_

_"Y __—_ yes, Daddy?"

_"Millie, Daddy and Uncle John are going to be with you very soon. I'll call Auntie Mary to take you to her house, and we'll meet you there."_

_Stella nodded. "Be quick, Daddy. Mummy told the bad men... she lied — she said I was with Auntie Mary."_

_"Uncle John just called Mary. She'll pick you up in a few since she's meeting some friends nearby. Meanwhile, don't hang up, Stella. Keep me on the line."_

_"Yes, Daddy."_

It was the last time she ever saw or heard from her mother. When Sherlock arrived at the Watson's flat an hour later, he sprang forward and crushed Stella in an embrace. "Daddy's here, Millie, Daddy's here."

A tear had escaped her ice blue eyes, sliding down her porcelain cheek and staining both of their clothes. Sherlock leaned back, and with immense sorrow wiped his daughter's tears with his thumb.

Stella might be young, being almost seven years old, but she was still her parents' daughter. Swiftly she rubbed her eyes, eliminating as many traces of tears as possible, and stared at her father. "Daddy, you'll find Mummy, right?" She asked in a clear, strong voice. Sherlock nodded, gazing at his daughter; and no matter how well he hid it, Stella could still see the guilt, sadness and despair swimming behind his ice-block-cold gaze.

It was the last time she ever allowed herself to he called Millie. Two days later she protested against anyone that called her by her legal first name; Sherlock included. His heart sank when he, with a heavy heart, called his daughter Stella instead of Millie or Mildred. The name Stella was picked by Molly, and Sherlock had picked Mildred for the sake of sticking to the Holmesian tradition of bizarre yet aristocratic first names. He didn't let Stella know, but every time he called his daughter, he would feel a hard pang in his heart.

The memory of her father's broken gaze on his usual indifferent countenance was forever etched in Stella's mind. She felt a lump rise up her throat, but she swallowed forcefully and held a fist in front of her mouth.

_No, _she reminded herself. _Crying doesn't help the situation. Rationality is my only weapon, nothing else. _

In spite of her efforts, nevertheless, she couldn't stop the stray tear rolling down her cheek.


	2. Chapter 1

**Here's a big thank you to those who reviewed, favourited and followed this story! It means a lot. Here's the first chapter to _Colder Than Ice_!**

* * *

The bell rang, signaling the end of Year Ten and the start of summer break. Stella Holmes silently gathered her belongings and held it in her arms, shutting out the excited chatter of the other girls in her economics class. She walked over to her friend, Ida Cameron, and stood by her desk. The black-haired girl haphazardly stuffed her books and pens into her bag, then walked out of the classroom with Stella.

"Stells, are you heading back to London?"

"Yes. My father will be delighted to see me."

"Of course he'll be. He's a busy man, roaming London with Dr. Watson to solve crimes, and he only sees you twice a year! Seriously, Stells, why didn't you go to school in London?"

"I wanted a change in scenery," Stella replied matter-of-factly, and Ida rolled her eyes.

"Anyway Stella, I've got to go. My parents are... well, being parents."

Stella raised an eyebrow. "Care to elaborate?"

Ida laughed. "Well, it's just that, they're expecting me to be home right after school ends, and we both know it's impossible."

"True. See you when Year Eleven starts."

"Sure. Don't forget to text me, or else I'll leave crazy messages on your dad's website and Dr. Watson's blog to demand you to text me!" Ida joked, and Stella simply stared.

"Have an enjoyable break, Ida."

The raven-haired girl waved, smiling widely. "See you, Stells!"

Stella nodded in acknowledgement, and proceeded to strode purposefully to her room. The room was in an orderly mess, just the way Stella liked it. Unused, old handouts were stacked on the floor according to respective subjects, some put into binders or tied into a bundle with black strings. The walls were of a bland beige color, adorned with different handouts, pieces of note paper and posters of universities and art festivals. She, at that moment, was grateful for Uncle Mycroft's influence, which caused her to be able to enjoy the privilege of using the same dorm room during the length of her studies in Harrington School for Girls. Setting the books and stationery still in her arms on her desk, she unbuttoned her jacket, undid the tie and changed into her casual dress, redoing her high ponytail into a side braid.

Her casual clothing were similar to her uniform. A black shirt, black skinny jeans, black sneakers and a black coat made up her complete outfit. Folding the worn uniform and putting it into the packed suitcases along with the items on her desk, she zipped the suitcase up, having packed everything she'd need in the summer into the case the day before. She tugged the luggage and a few travel bags to the door, and turned back to give the room a last glance before she left for summer break.

She then exited and locked the door, ignoring the photo frame that laid face-down on her desk, and the pang that went through her chest.

At her insistence she didn't go home by the sleek black car, but rather, by train. She flagged a taxi, telling the cabbie to drive her to Chesterfield railway station, then hopped off. Fumbling in her purse for a while she found her Oyster, slapped it on the Oyster machine, and entered the platform.

Chesterfield was a small station, and she had calculated the time of arrival just right so that she had to only wait for five minutes before her train arrived. With a gentleman who insisted to help her she heaved her luggage onto the train, then collapsed onto the window seat.

Going home was bittersweet for her. On one hand she was excited to see her father, his loyal comrade, Dr. Watson, and Mrs. Hudson; but she didn't want to go back to where she witnessed the most important woman in her life was abducted. This year marked the eighth year of her mother's disappearance, and Dr. Molly Holmes was still missing — not even the joint effort of the two elder Holmes men could recover her whereabouts. Stella didn't want to see anything that conjured a memory — no, a _sentiment _— about her mother, but a part of her wanted to be in Baker Street, longed to, _yearned_ to. Constructing more iron gates around her own palace hadn't yielded much effect in blocking out trespassers and intruders, though.

* * *

_Pronounced marks on shirt cuffs, definitely works in the office. Coffee stain on shirt, caused by his shaking hand making his coffee slosh and spill. Possibly from shock — no, anger — disbelief. Creases in the trousers in the knee region, cr —_

The Consulting Detective groaned, his train of thoughts being cut short abruptly by the keys jingling at the front door. He opened his mouth to complain at Mrs. Hudson forcing his door open without his permission, and upon recognizing the swift yet forceful motions at the lock, he promptly shut his mouth, stood up and walked over to the door. The door swung open, narrowly missing his nose, and he was startled by the force of his daughter's swing. Stepping to a side he held the door open for Stella, and he softly smiled. "Hello Stella. Welcome back."

"Sorry I almost hit your nose Father," Stella nodded briskly. "And thank you for holding the door. I appreciate the gesture, though I believe I am capable of doing so on my own."

Sherlock stood with his back ramrod straight. He was a composed person, barely being surprised, yet the behavior or Stella absolutely _puzzled _him. "Alright," he nodded. "I suppose you will carry your bags upstairs, or do you require my assistance?" Sherlock asked with distant formality to match Stella's coldness, a tone he hadn't employed for a long time.

"If you will help me carry the travel bags."

"Of course," Sherlock held two travel bags in each hand, and followed his daughter to her bedroom. Wordlessly he put the bags near the door to her room, and then spoke up. "I'll be downstairs."

Stella nodded, and Sherlock walked downstairs.

Once Sherlock was out of her room, Stella took out her phone and punched in a text. "_Arrived at Baker Street. —Stella"_

Within minutes, Ida replied. "_Did your dad blow up your room? —Ida C"_

_"No. Everything is still intact. —Stella"_

She put down her phone and began to unpack, dumping books and copies of _Cambridge Law Journal_ onto her bed, recreating a bed of books rather than blankets. She scattered a few pieces of lines paper onto the ground, throwing a few pencils around in the process. Half-filled pages were pinned on the wall, books were put into the shelf, the uniform put into the laundry basket, and Stella considered herself done in settling down in Baker Street for the summer. She sat down cross-legged on the ground, snatched a copy of _Cambridge Law Journal_, grabbed a random piece of paper and a pencil, and began reading.

Downstairs, Sherlock was pacing around, looking for clues that would explain his daughter's bizarre and puzzling behavior. Prior to this return Stella had always gave him a brief, quick hug when she returned home for Christmas or summer break, and she had never entered the house without greeting him. Yet today, Stella hadn't said _hello nor good ev —_

_She also called me Father, _Sherlock observed. Never, _never _had Stella called him "Father" before, not even when she was exasperated or annoyed.

This intrigued Sherlock exceedingly. How come he hadn't seen the signs before Stella became this cold, this distant, this _scarily like him? _Then again, he only communicated with Stella via texts, no phone calls; and he knew Stella was especially skilled in arts and could easily disguise her true feelings and emotions with a play of words.

_What, for God's sake, was going on with Stella?_

At this moment, he wished for nothing more than Molly's presence.

Sherlock knew Stella's behavior wasn't caused by any errors on his part. It was likely to be something that happened when she was away at Harrington. Was it something sentimental, something emotional scarring; or did someone say —

He shivered involuntarily, an unknown chill making itself known in his spine. _No. It couldn't have happened. It is not a possibility. _

Then it left the however improbable, but correct deduction—something scarred Stella emotionally. Yet what could Sherlock, unskilled in dealing with sentiments, do to help his daughter without the help of his pathologist? He hated to see Stella close herself off like how Mycroft and he did, but he couldn't help her — not without Molly's assistance.

* * *

"I'm going for a walk," Stella called out a few hours later, then slammed the door shut behind her. Sherlock looked up just in time, and barely managed a nod before his daughter vanished behind the door. Since her return to Baker Street Sherlock had noticed changes in Stella, and thus resolved to act more like an amiable father figure like John. He still had a long way to go, but he was already improving, and he'd like to think he was now _a bit not good, _rather than_ not good_. Sherlock sat the conical flask he was holding down, careful not to spill the conical flask that was filled to the brim with methylbenzene — an imprudent decision on his part — and left the kitchen.

The kitchen, like his bachelor days, was still his laboratory — Stella wasn't home often, and he preferred dining at Mrs. Hudson's when he felt the need to eat a proper meal. When Stella was home in the previous breaks, she would assist him in temporarily clearing a corner of their dining table so they could eat like how proper families should — minus the missing mother.

Unceremoniously he plopped down onto his seat which he still occupied after John moved out to start a new life with Mary, and held back a curse as he realised that he had inadvertently sat on a evaporating dish and a pair of tongs that he apparently tossed carelessly there when he briefly took a nap on the couch a few days ago. He then proceeded to refocus on Stella's behaviour in her prior visits, cataloguing them into his daughter's room in his Mind Palace; and Sherlock couldn't help but notice a few - well, more than a mere handful of - discrepancies.

Stella Holmes was not an overly affectionate child, but she knew her manners. Not once, ever, in her life had she brushed past her father in such a haughty and indifferent manner - a manner comparable to her Uncle Mycroft when they struggled to conceal their true self. _It was a trait I took upon as well,_ Sherlock noted; and at that moment, he realised that Stella was as much of a Holmes as a Hooper - a mixture of coolness and compassion.

Yet where did the compassion go? She would usually beg Sherlock to tell her about a case or two that were eights or more, and groan in exasperation before he spoke to explain his injuries when she observed some newly healed scars and wounds on her father's body. She was a compassionate individual, always looking after every person around her; but the Stella Holmes presented in front of her was distant and aloof - just like a person who believed that loneliness was what she only had, and what could protect her.

A sudden realisation hit Sherlock, and he jumped from his seat, unable to believe that he missed the blatantly obvious. _Why were her clothes black?_

Since enrolling in Harrington School for Girls, Stella had gradually shifted from wearing casual T-shirts to semi-formal light blue shirts, as it was a part of her regular school uniform. Wearing the uniform shirts seemed practical, as it reduced the need to purchase new clothes for weekends. It was also when she chose black high tops over beige trainers, probably because it matched better with the rest of her outfit; and dirt would less likely appear on the surface of black shoes than beige ones.

Sherlock didn't live with his daughter for the majority of the year, but he knew his daughter. She was a creature of habit, albeit a bit eccentric at times; and she would _not_ change her attire simply because she _felt like it_, unlike what her other counterparts may claim.

Something had happened, and it caused Stella to suddenly prefer a black shirt over a light blue one. _Trauma? Pain? Grief? _Sherlock reasoned, before groaning in frustration. His daughter was a bloody hard puzzle to solve, and he thought his wife was already an enigma.

The thought of his still missing wife sent a dull pang in his chest, as if chiding him of his helplessness and trying to encourage him to figure out what in God's name was wrong with their daughter. _Their_ daughter.

The Consulting Detective lowered his head against into his hands, muffling a dejected yell. He would be _damned_ if he was incapable of figuring out what exactly was wrong with Stella.


	3. Chapter 2

**About half the reviews that I received for this story so far consists of the same question: "WHERE IS MOLLY?" I'm not giving any spoilers - you can think that she's now in the apocalypse, that she's dead, or she's a freelance assassin; it's up to you to decide... for now. ;)**

**I try to update on Sundays, but I can't say for sure about the next update - I have to balance deadlines for a school musical production and a short vacation on my plate, so there aren't any guarantees! Hopefully I'll be able to update next Sunday though :)**

* * *

_A whimper escaped Stella's lips as she held her knees against her chest, forcing her tears to stop flowing. It had been three days since she was suspended from school, and five days until the day which marked the eighty year of Mummy's disappearance from 221B Baker Street._

A teenage girl with reddish brown hair sat on the windowsill of her room, hugging her legs and resting her chin on top of her knees. The teenager shook her head, jostling the unwelcome invasion of reminisce out of her Mind Palace. It was unwanted, and an absolute waste of the precious space inside her own mind; yet this wretched event would always float stealthily straight into the sitting room of her palace.

_Alone protects me._

She remembered Uncle John saying that Daddy once claimed that solitude was his sole protection - not even Uncle Mycroft or Uncle John could offer the same level of protection that loneliness offered. If it was true, however, why did she still feel pain and betrayal even though she was isolated?

The room that she shut with a deadbolt forced itself open from the inside, evading its confines and invading the serenity that prevailed upon her Mind Castle. Ignorance originally aided her in pushing the memory at bay until she finished the work at hand, but it persisted and was the victor in the end.

_It was her who plagiarized my work, Ms. Griffin! It was her! Stella Holmes!_

Stella walked further away from the closet that housed Colleen Wallace, but the screams still haunted her. They, after all, were what made her leave, what made her leave the vicinity of the closet in the first place.

_Ms. Griffin, I can assure you that I never did not had the intention to plagiarize Ms. Wallace's work. As proved by my prior performances, I am a highly competent student in economics, not once scoring below 98% in every test and exam. Ms. Wallace's claim, therefore, should be rendered inaccurate. Why would I desire to plagiarize her work when she borders on the brink of failure? If anything, Ms. Griffin, I believe Ms. Wallace is the one at fault here to claim that I plagiarized _her_ work._

Stella groaned. _Suppress it,_ a voice told her, and she repeated the mantra. _Suppress the memory!_

Colleen Wallace's claws peeked from the closet, scratching Stella's pressed black shirt and the skin at her left wrist. Deeply she inhaled, forcing herself to remain calm. She then walked solemnly forward, steadied herself, and punched the extended claws, shattering the bones that once supported the fingers on the right hand. But just as she walked down the corridor away from the wretched closet, her knuckles began moaning in pain, even clicking loudly in protest when she attempted to flex her hand. Quietly cursing her luck she, with skilled fingers, bandaged up her lightly scathed right hand and then continued the walk away from her nightmare.

Yet the pain was still there. The sting of the betrayal didn't diminish. She had thought Colleen could be her friend - like how Ida was to her - but she was so wrong, _oh_ so wrong.

It had all been a plan, a set-up that she wasn't able to see, simply because she was blinded. Blinded by hope.

Blinded by _sentiments_.

And sentiments were what she got in the end.

In the end, Ms. Griffin declared Stella Holmes to be innocent of all accusations lodged against her supposed plagiarism of Colleen Wallace's economics essay, and Colleen Wallace was to be suspended for a week.

But the voices still wafted from the closet to her sensitive ears.

She hadn't wanted to hear them, but she did.

_Fake. _

_ Liar. _

_ She probably bribed the teachers for grades and threw a tantrum when they refused to. _

_ Well, her father is Sherlock Holmes. He faked his death and tricked the world. Not a surprise that she fooled us all._

The sting, the biting words - Stella took them without slightest bit of hesitation. Ida had been optimistic and hoped that everything would soon clear off, but Stella understood. She understood the situation.

It would never, _never_ ever be the same.

It was when —

"Stella. Here you are," Sherlock addressed his daughter with evident relief, after searching through the silent flat only to see his little girl perched up on the windowsill. Her face showed extreme distress, but her eyes were cold, indifferent, with an air of detachment. The Consulting Detective found it hard to decipher the feelings pooling up behind her irises, but he wasn't going to give up.

In fact, he was certain Stella knew he was playing this game; only that she didn't acknowledge it.

"Yes Father?"

"John invited us over to dinner. Mary is anxious to see you - the last time she saw you was during Christmas."

"Give me ten minutes," Stella hopped off the windowsill and landed inside the room on fourteen _Cambridge Law Journals_ with a thud.

"Certainly."

_She would not be weak. She would not let the emotions get to her again._

It was the last time that she would let herself be consumed by sentiments, and it would be the last time for her to break down because of it. It was a vow that she made - the first vow that she made to herself after what happened with Colleen Wallace.

_"Daddy, what are you doing?" A seven-year-old Stella had asked her father when they were in Baker Street one day. They had just seen Lord St. Simon with regards to the disappearance of his bride, and Sherlock Holmes currently sat in his usual chair, elbows resting on his knees while he rested his hand on his fingertips. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, not particularly pleased that he was pulled from his mind palace abruptly. He was about to snap at the intruder when he noticed a pair of turquoise eyes - so eerily like his - stare him down._

_"I'm in my Mind Palace, Stella."_

_"Mind Palace?" Stella cocked her head in confusion, the name of her father's unique system rolling off her tongue smoothly._

_Sherlock leaned back and rested his head against the cushioned headrest on his chair, and smiled softly at his daughter. At seven she was already exceptionally bright - with a queer aversion to science. John had told him off - rather nicely - that he shouldn't expect his daughter to be inclined to science, but should instead let herself develop into an individual. Stella's turquoise eyes were indeed a miracle - he never thought that Molly was only heterozygous for her chocolate brown eyes - and he was torn that he, on one hand was grateful that he wouldn't be vividly reminded of Stella's mother when he looked at his daughter, yet he longed to see those innocent, wide doe brown eyes for once more, just once more._

_He proceeded to explain the term to his daughter. "It is a place inside your mind, where you can store up memories and knowledge so that they become easily accessible."_

_Stella's eyes lightened, a ridiculous notion in the eyes of the boring people. "Does that mean that I can remember everything I read if I have a Mind Palace, Daddy?"_

_"You can also choose what to not remember, and what to ignore."_

_An excited squeal escaped the little girl's mouth, and she jumped off her seat opposite to Sherlock and launched herself onto Sherlock's lap. "Oh Daddy, teach me how to make it!"_

Stella grimaced at the memory. She was so innocent, so naive, so ignorant of the devils lurking out of reach, safely banned from Baker Street. At that time, the only grief that she ever knew was mummy being taken away - or rather, abducted - by a bunch of men that turned out to be from a Satanic worship clan. It had been more than eight-and-a-half years since mummy disappeared - 104 months to be exact - and still, nobody knew her whereabouts; not even the British government and the world's only Consulting Detective combined.

Grateful was she for asking Sherlock about his Mind Palace, however - it definitely was of utmost use when she was attempting to bury the memories of how Colleen betrayed her.

As she briskly walked over to her closet, she removed the grey sheet that she wrapped around herself and traded it for a black jacket. Her white collar was highlighted, left unbuttoned, was highlighted by the black clothes that she wore. Hidden deep inside her black shirt was a small brass pendant which she never puts on public display, and the only hint of the necklace was a thin silver chain that rarely peeked from below the shirt. On top of the jacket she donned her usual black jacket - London weather was always ridiculous, but it didn't mean she didn't love the place - and loosened her hair from the side braid. Once she was satisfied with how she looked with a brief glance at the mirror, she put on her shoes, fixed her jeans and strode out to see her father lying on the couch, obviously lost in his Mind Palace again.

Stella groaned. It took barely two minutes for her to dress up fully and ready to go, but her father was barely ready. Rolling at her eyes while silently musing who was the _real_ child in their father-daughter relationship, she strode over to the pegs behind the door, took her father's suit jacket, and flung it right into his face.

"What?" Sherlock directed an annoyed glare at Stella, after rising in shock and letting the jacket slide down to his torso.

Stella gave a deadpan look, and with an equally deadpan voice, she said, "Dinner at Watsons? Does that ring a bell? No?"

"It does. Obviously I wasn't aware that it now took you less than... ten minutes to get fully dressed and ready to go. Remember that you took ten minutes and twenty-six seconds to get dressed for your departure back to school in January this year."

"Whatever," Stella rolled her eyes. "Ready?"

"Ecstatic," Sherlock cracked an overly bright and enthusiastic grin, causing Stella's lips to twitch in slight amusement.

The cab ride to the Watson's house was quiet, with Sherlock checking his email for potential cases and giving snarky remarks to DI Lestrade and DI Donovan, who had started to gain more respect for Sherlock Holmes over the years. Stella, on the other hand, simply looked out of the cab window when she caught sight of something peculiar, something she hadn't noticed before.

"What happened to Evah Pirazzi?"

Sherlock put away his phone and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Stella swallowed, and proceeded to elaborate.

"Healing wound on your left pinky finger. Caused by something fine, ad the wound was along the position where you change positions on the E string. You could only have gotten it if you used a brand of strings you're unaccustomed to. People only use a different brand for the E string if they choose to use two brands of strings, so it must obviously be the E string. So Father, is it Pirastro Gold, Hill or Westminister?

After Stella rattled off her deductions her father stared at her in amazement. "Brilliant. It's Pirastro Gold."

Stella quirked an eyebrow in response. "Ah."

"Please don't do this to John and the others though. They don't appreciate it as much as we do," Sherlock reminded his daughter once again, reminiscing the times when John and his wife would chastise him for being a smart-ass and a show-off for spewing out deductions as if everyone near him weren't morons... though admittedly, they _were_ morons; and as he saw Stella gave a barely perceptible nod, he nodded in satisfaction and glanced at the fading trees and Tarmac outside his side of the cab.

Soon enough, the can pulled up at the Watson's house. Sherlock threw a few banknotes to the cabbie, and they both left the can, coats swishing around their bodies. The father rapped his knuckles on the door quickly, and a blonde, petite yet kind-looking woman opened the door. She affectionately pecked Sherlock's cheek and hugged him and greeted him. Turning to Stella she settled for another hug and another kiss on the cheek. Not sure how to respond to the shower of affections Stella only stood frozen on the spot until Mary withdrew her arms. It was then when she addressed Mary Watson. "Hello, Mrs. Watson."

This made Sherlock and Mary - and John, who happened to be just behind Mary when she had her heels on - start and snap their attention to Stella Holmes.

The detective's daughter, however, gave no notice to the surprised trio near her. It was Mary who recovered from the initial shock, and smiled warmly at Stella. "Hi, Stella. Please call me Mary."

John, having snapped out of the trance, stepped into view from behind his wife. "Hey, Stella. Can I take your coat?"

"Dr. Watson," She gave a minimal nod, and John gave a half-smile.

"Please, John."

"Okay."

Stella stepped into the large studio flat on the ground, and before she could fully register her location and gain her bearings, two pair of arms - masculine arms - wrapped themselves around her. One around her neck, one around her waist.

"Hey, S!"

"S!"

Stella flinched subconsciously, quickly accessing the situation. Judging from how tightly they clung onto Stella and how try affectionately called him S, she'd eager that she and the boys - Watson boys, obviously - had been close friends in childhood and in early adolescence. "Hey, boys," she tentatively called out - and to her relief, the two rascals detached herself from Stella and started squabbling.

"Henry took my robot!"

"I didn't! You told me to get it!"

"You did!"

"You lied, Irvin Alfred!"

"Boys, don't argue," Stella exasperated lay groaned. If she knew she was signing up to be a babysitter or a mediator to their conflict, she wouldn't have consented to joining the Watsons for dinner.

"Irvin! Henry! What exactly happened?" The former army doctor loudly spoke, stunning the boys to silence.

Stella took this perfect opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

* * *

"Sherlock," his blogger pulled the Consulting Detective to the coat peg behind the door, so that they were half hidden from plain sight by the coats. "What the _hell_ is up with Stella?"

"I don't know, John," Sherlock admitted. "I am not aware of any mistakes that I had made prior to her arrival."

John stared hard at his friend, processing his words. "Wait," he raised a hand in confusion. "You mean she has been acting like this since she arrived?"

Sherlock nodded, and John rubbed a hand over his face.

"Well, that's a bloody hard case then."

"Case?" Sherlock's eyebrow shot up in alarm.

"Sherlock," John looked at the detective squarely in the eye. "This is a twelve. A bloody twelve involving a crap load of sentiments. And yes, I know the highest level of your scale is a ten," he held up his hand - again - to shut Sherlock up, who was about to interrupt. "But this is different. This involves _your_ daughter, and you'll be dead ten times over if Molly's here and sees how you just ignore the bloody sentiments or chemical defects and let Stella continue to be like that."

"Brilliant," he uttered, sarcasm dripping from his voice.


	4. Chapter 3

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Lord Kelly?"

"There is more to this mystery than you let on, isn't there?" The Prime minister cocked an eyebrow as he put on his coat, after the immediate predicament was eliminated.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in response. "Why would you think that?"

Lord Kelly replied. "Trent may be a bit ignorant at times, but he is no imbecile. There is no way that the memory card is miraculously found safely tucked into the card reader."

"We all have our diplomatic secrets," Sherlock smirked, and with a swish of his coat, he was out of Baron Hope's mansion. John, sensing how his friend was about to snap from the tension imputed to Stella's current condition and the emotional intensity that Lady Kelly displayed in front of him, bid the three prominent figures in society a good afternoon, and then hurried to follow his friend.

"So, diplomatic secrets?" John asked as the duo exited Trent Hope's house. It wasn't the first time for John and Sherlock to take part in classified cases at Mycroft's request, but this was perhaps the only time when Sherlock showed hints of playfulness and pleasantly when working on cases.

The Consulting Detective shrugged. "That was the best way to put it."

"Not even an 'oh, just ask the lady' dismissal?"

"John," Sherlock turned to look at his blogger, a trace of exasperation in his eyes. "There are things he shouldn't know, and contrary to popular belief, I _do_ know when to keep my mouth shut."

John stared at his comrade for a second, then turned to face the front again, this time taking the lead as Sherlock slowed down, obviously deep in thought. He didn't even realise that he had completely halted until John called out his name. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm? Oh, right," he quickly resumed his steps, and caught up with John after a few long strides. He remained silent for the rest of the walk and during the cab ride, closing his eyes and resting his fingertips below his chin as he reclined on the cab seat. The cab took him to the Watsons', where Stella and he had dinner a week ago with the Watsons. It was also where he truly discovered how much his daughter changed in the course of six months since they parted in January.

It was baffling.

The cab soon dropped them off at John and Mary's house, and Sherlock silently followed John inside and sat down in the nearest seat available. He resumed his thinking pose - shoulders hunched, elbows propped up at the knee, head resting on fingertips; trying to categorize bits and pieces of his daughter. _Their_ daughter.

So immersed was he in his thoughts that he didn't realize John had made him tea and taken a seat opposite to him - just like the old days.

John took a sip of the tea, and rested the china on the saucer. "Is it Stella?"

After over two decades of befriending John Watson, Sherlock was no longer shocked by his ability to _see_ things in a different, yet often useful, light. He offered a brief nod and briefly peeled an eye open before squeezing it shut.

"She forgot about Irvin and Alfred," Sherlock re-opened his eyes after ten minutes, and spoke after having a drink.

This earned a raised eyebrow from John. "She did?"

"Her eyes. Clouded by questions, yet piercing with the sharp, investigative gaze. She only observed that she was very familiar with Alfred and Irvin, and put her acting skills to use so as to convince your sons that she remembers them. It was all an act, though I believe she will remember them very soon."

"She also called me Dr. Watson, and she never called me that before."

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock snapped. "You're not the one to be formally addressed. She even called me 'father' when she just arrived at Baker Street, and apologized for almost hitting my nose with the door instead of greeting me properly."

"Okay," John inhaled slowly. "Now the key question is: why?"

"Thank you for stating the blatantly obvious, John. It is impossible for her to have been physically abuse under Mycroft's surveillance. No indication of romance was present, rendering her impossible to be broken emotionally and hence decided to shut people out."

John frowned. "What about others bad mouthing her? Slandering?"

His lips quirked and his nose scrunched as Sherlock considered the likelihood of such. "Slandering me and causing her such, not likely. Stella and I have a strong relationship and we established long ago that I am _not_ a fraud. But slandering _her_..."

He took a sip from his now lukewarm cup of tea, and stood up. Pacing around the room, he tucked his chin into his chest, hands clasped at the back.

"Black clothes, showing lamentation, mourning, bleakness. Jeans and trainers, practical yet not difficult to purchase, reasonable for students' daily wear. Still the coat she had had since she was thirteen, white buttonholes and black wool. Inquisitive gaze, signs of emotional detachment - _oh_."

"Oh?"

Sherlock suddenly jumped up and down in the same spot, muffling a few frustrated screams and groaned loudly instead. "The Mind Palace!"

John raised a hand. "Okay, the Mind Palace. But what the hell does it have to do with Stella's change?"

"I told Stella when she was seven that a Mind Palace could help her choose what to remember and what not to remember. They can be placed in the most accessible room for easy retrieval, and locked away for forgetting about some particular thing. She must have encountered something that made her put this to use."

John nodded thoughtfully as Sherlock continued. "She is doing what I have been doing before The Fall, John. Believing that the body is merely transport and that sentiment is a chemical defect in the losing side. This has proven to be completely erroneous, but I'm not surprised that Stella will elect to do something similar to protect herself. And if I'm not mistaken, she is reluctant to do so for she is a compassionate girl at heart, but only forced to after some severe trauma."

"This might be irrelevant, but Stella never saw a psychiatrist after Molly was abducted," John supplied, and Sherlock snapped his attention to the blogger.

"Are you saying that unhealed emotional trauma _and_ some recent events caused her to be like this?"

"This can be wrong," John explained patiently at the child in front of him. "But it's not impossible. She's not you, Sherlock. She's emotional - heck, even Lestrade can tell, and he isn't as close to Stella as Mary, you, Molly and I. And remember, sentiment is comes and can't be rationalised, so don't you dare dismiss this idea and say that 'Stella won't be affected by this so much as we think it would', because I'm sure you felt just as bad or even worse when Redbeard died."

"How did you know about Redbeard?" Sherlock icily asked, and John held up his hands in surrender.

"You kept mumbling about Redbeard when you were unconscious after getting shot, and I asked Mycroft."

The Consulting Detective grunted, and plopped into his seat, crossing his legs.

* * *

A knock at her door roused Stella from her concentration, causing her to look up from the mess of old court case documents and copies of law books and focus her attention on the visitor.

"Hello, Father," Stella greeted with a yawn. She then proceeded to reorganize the old cases according to the nature of the cases, ignoring her father.

Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Hello, Stella. How is the organization going?"

"Just finished with tort cases. Anything else?" Stella once again looked up from her work, her auburn hair falling out of her French braid. There was an overly cheerful and enthusiastic smile on her face, one that Sherlock Holmes knew too well.

She observed her father hold back a groan as he articulated what she deduced he would say. "Is everything alright?"

"Perfectly so."

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at her reply, and his daughter took this as a sign to continue. "I'm in my room analyzing old cases mentioned in the _Cambridge Law Journal, _while organizing the mentioned and related cases in accordance with the nature of the cases. I have gathered that forty per cent of tort cases are influenced by the judges' personal values, and that the verdict of at least fifty per cent of such cases can be overturned should an appeal be launched and a more neutral judge is appointed. As for criminal trials, had the suspect been a low-profile person, never having been exposed to public eye flamboyantly, I can safely say that their sentences will be significantly lower and more lenient because of the lack of public scrutiny. And judging from your shirt, father, Mrs. Hudson just brought you cookies, double chocolate chip cookies and gingerbread cranberry cookies as well as butter shortbread. You've already devoured one plate of double chocolate chip cookies and I suggest you refrain from eating any further to prevent another appointment with the dentist from happening. _'Stella, would you like a snack?'_ I can answer you that yes, I would like them, and I'd appreciate it if you could leave five of each, bar double chocolate chip cookies, on a plate and put it at my door. I shall collect it as soon as I finish the tasks at hand. Hence as you see, I can observe well and I am conducting my own studies in the nature of crimes and the verdicts, and I have never been so fine in my life. So please, _leave_."

Stella took a small, deep breath, and flashed another smirk at her father. "Thank you," she grinned, too brightly. Her smile slipped off her face when her door closed softy, and she glanced at the piece of paper in her hand at that instant.

_Market failure results w__—_

Scowling, she crumbled the piece of paper, while recalling her father's face with perfect clarity. She had scrutinized her father's expression with utmost concentration, and she could be absolutely certain that he was confused about her demeanor. She had never acted so dismissive towards Dadd — _Father_, she corrected mentally — so it was bound to arouse questions.

The confusion, yet, was intended. Stella had no intention of letting Father or Uncle Mycroft know about the extent of what happened in school, for she knew it would strip her of her freedom and make her a prisoner at 221B Baker Street - a place she was desperate to avoid, especially the living room - unable to roam in her own Mind.

Then, slowly, softly, the soft tunes of a violin concerto — Vivaldi's _Concerto in E Major __—_floated and wafted towards Stella, until all that she saw, all that she heard was the soothing, expressive melody that her father played. She recognised the piece to be one of _her _favorites, one that she had often requested Sherlock to play until eight years ago.

It was the first time for Stella to listen to her father play the piece alone, without another person in his vicinity, and she was shocked and moved by the sentiments flowing through every note, the emotions being let out from the bow weaving through the strings.

The thought of the music almost brought Stella to tears. The last time she heard this melody, the Holmes family was still complete, merry and mirthful — save for the eccentricity of each occupant of 221B Baker Street - and the surge of memories was overwhelming.

_No_.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing her two hands hard against her temples, struggling to lock the memories in.

_Lab __—__ go left, down, into the room. Hyde Park __—__ go right, up, and anther right, into the room. Piccadilly - go left, irrelevance discovered, discard._

Gradually, bit by bit, memories were restored, resorted and some discarded. Her mind was once again clear, free of any chemical defects lurking around. She quickly scanned her Palace, looking for latent triggers, and was glad to find none.

_Resorted, cleared._

_Focus._

_Caring is not an advantage._

Caring wasn't an advantage, isn't, and will never be. It brought her down, tore people apart, and took trust away among individuals.

And Stella knew, and firmly believed so, that the only way to survive was to not let anything destroy her.

Especially _not_ sentiment, a chemical defect found on the losing side. It had almost destroyed her father and Uncle Mycroft, no matter how vehemently he denied it, as well as the late Uncle (bizarre male name), who was a taboo subject in the Holmes household.

All Holmes men were subjected to demise by emotional failing; and she, as a Holmes, was bound to suffer from a similar fate. Shutting others out and living in solitude was, hence, the only way to protect herself, the only way to keep her heart safe — even if it meant hurting the others.

After all, she was all that she had in the end.

* * *

**I can't believe I got almost 30 follows for this story when we're barely at Chapter 3! Thanks so much guys :D**

**By the way, I'll be joining Camp NaNoWriMo to work on a new fantasy original story, so I'll put this story on temporary hiatus. I'll be back in August with updates, I promise.**


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